


Prompt: Feral Tony

by romanoff



Series: snippets/WIPs [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Feral Behavior, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: It's not the most absurd thing that's ever happened to Steve, but it's up there.(This is a snippet/unfinished)





	Prompt: Feral Tony

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm bored/lack inspiration, I upload all my WIPS and let people select which ones they like best. So, let me know if you like!

The gas must be potent if it’s strong enough to take out Steve.  
   
There’s blood on his tuxedo. He only has one tuxedo. Tony had taken him to be fitted, a few years ago, and he’s never felt compelled to buy a new one. He doesn’t like the fittings, being measured and noted like a specimen in a lab, and besides, it seems wasteful when this one will do just fine.  
   
Well, when this one _did_ just fine. The waistcoat and dress-shirt underneath are burnt, singed with the taser they’d pressed to his shoulder. And there’s blood on the fine-pressed white collar, from where they’d punched him, kicked in his face with their leather boots.  
   
Now, they’ve cuffed his hands behind his back with magnetic chains. These people are black-market, gamblers, dealers; Steve would wager half of them come from what was left of HYDRA after SHIELD fell. The gag isn’t so high-tech – it’s just his tie, wrapped round his head. He’s propped up against a pillar, feeling dazed, feeling less powerful than he has in years –  
   
Military. Some of the guards have old Stark weapons, but that doesn’t mean anything. They’re clumped together, a mix and match of tech. An organised militia. The one in charge – wearing the same black recon suits they all wear, except with a white armband – points his gun at a group of guests, clustered together, still wearing all their finery in various states of disarray. The gas targets speech centres, Steve thinks; he’s okay, but the others…  
   
He told Tony to run. No suit, defenceless. Steve is all too aware that without it, he is squishy, fragile, human. Jesus, Steve hates galas.  
   
He hates this worse, though. This feeling of… impotence. Like he was their best chance, and now he’s half passed out and chained to a pole. He’d had it all planned, too. He was going to ask Tony to dance tonight. He was going to hold out his hand, and ask in a kind of joking, but not really joking way, want to dance? And Tony would laugh, and say, ‘sure’. And they would. And as they were moving around the floor, Tony would look into his eyes, and maybe see something there, and they would have a moment, and then –  
   
It’s doubly pathetic, Steve thinks, to be day-dreaming while there’s an armed militia roaming around the floor, guns pointed at innocent civilians.  
   
The crackle of a radio. “Upper floors secured,” Steve hears someone say.  
   
“Good,” the leader grunts, shortly. “What about the livestock?”  
   
“Mostly poor. There’s a family here – alpha, got a wife and two omega sons. What should we do?”  
   
The leader considers. “How old’s the wife?”  
   
“About fifty.”  
   
“And the kids?”  
   
“I don’t know. Young. The eldest one’s definitely heated before.”  
   
“Shoot the parents. Take the kids.”  
   
Fuck. Fuck, God, _no._  
   
He can hear gunfire over the radio. The leader leaves it on, then clicks it off with a small smirk. He wanted them to hear. He wanted them to know.  
   
Breeders.  
   
They don’t normally come this far in. They stick to the fringes: orphans, the homeless, vulnerable. Once in a while – truly, in extreme, rare circumstances – you hear about an oligarch’s daughter going missing, a billionaire’s son. The kind of people who would buy omegas don’t always want to settle for cast-offs.  
   
This is bold. Very bold. These people won’t be working on their own – it’ll be in conjunction with someone else. And to choose this gala – the one where they _know_ some of the most powerful people in the world would be dressed up and armed down –  
   
“We found him,” someone calls, throwing open the doors to the ballroom. “He’s shit at hide and seek. All that brain, huh, and he hasn’t learnt how cover his tracks.”  
   
Tony snarls on the end of a tether. Fucking hell, it’s not even real bindings, it’s a catch pole, the kind of thing you’d use to round up a stray dog. “Is he dosed?” The leader asks, casually.  
   
The guard pushes him forward. They form a wide berth, don’t go near his scratching hands, which are pulling desperately at the rope around his neck, digging into his flesh. “Fuck you,” he wheezes, and the guard must pull it tighter because he chokes, frantically sucking in breath. “Fuck you,” he breathes, eyes watering, losing his balance. “You fucking freak, you shitstain, there are kids here, you’re killing kids – “  
   
“Dose him, gag him, put him with the others,” the leader dismisses. “Round up the omegas, we got what we came for.”  
   
What they came for? They came for _Tony?_ Steve grunts, pushes himself forward. “Mmghf!” He tries to catch their attention, to distract them, maybe, although even he’s aware of what a shit fucking plan that is. They’re dosing Tony, squeezing his nose and forcing him to breathe in gas through his mouth, then covering his lower face with the kind of thing you’d see on a farm animal, a gag that hooks behind his ears, like a nosebag for a horse. Tony’s fight doesn’t go out of him; he still struggles, even when they cuff his hands. But then they’re rounding up the omegas, screaming, wordless, crying and pleading in these awful whimpering, whining tones while alphas grunt and throw themselves forward only to be hit with the butts of guns.   
   
The leader checks his watch. “Shoot the ones over breeding age,” he says, lazily.  
   
Screaming. Sobbing. Alphas begging for the lives of their loved ones. An old woman, wearing a purple dress, shot through the head. A man, handsome, maybe just scraping fifty, hair lightly greying but still fit, and young, and murdered in front of his alpha’s eyes. Tony flinches. With every shot, he flinches, jumps out of his skin.  
   
Steve feels pathetic. Emasculated isn’t even the word. People have died.  
   
People are dying, right in front of his eyes. And he’s doing nothing.  
   
“He’s older,” one of the guards points out, aiming the tip of his gun in Tony’s direction. “Are we sure we want him?”  
   
“We want him,” the leader says firmly. “The stud, too. The orders were very specific, if we don’t get him we lose the tech. And I’m _not_ losing the tech, understand?”  
   
“Understood, Sir.”  
   
The stud? The stud.  
   
Oh, Christ.  
   
They’re coming for him. Four guards, taking him by the shoulders, pulling him to standing while he snaps and rankles and pushes against them. He downs three of them, they go tumbling like skittles, but there are six more, holding him, forcing him forward. “Dose him again,” the leader says. “The sponsor told us he’d take more.”  
   
They’re dragging him. “Tony,” he tries to say, groaning behind the gag, slurring his name. “Tony, Tony, Tony.”  
   
They keep him apart from the other omegas, pull him up so he’s walking next to Steve. “Load those two together,” the leader says, “take care of the rest. Make sure there aren’t any survivors.”  
   
Steve sees Tony shut his eyes. And the screams echo behind them. And then the gunfire. And then the silence.  
   
   
He’s trembling. Steve can feel him, the two of them pushed together, bundled into the back of a truck. It’s cold, and Tony no longer has his coat. Steve’s breath fogs in the air, Tony’s is hidden behind that awful cloth gag. He can hear the sirens in the distance, but they won’t be fast enough. Tony hadn’t wanted to come. He hates Russia this time of year. But Steve had said, it would be good if they looked united. They need countries on their side, to agree to their new peacekeeping charter, and Russia was always a hold-out.  
   
The guards are a mix. Their leader is American, the others a mix of languages, some Russian, French, German. They speak broken English, but then, they don’t really speak at all. You don’t talk to livestock.  
   
They push them into barred cages, slide shut the entries, slam the doors to the truck shut, one, and two. They’re left in the dark, and the cold, and Steve can hear Tony’s breathing, breaths coming fast and short.  
   
He rubs his cheek against his shoulder, worries the gag in his mouth, begins to loosen the knot they’ve tied at the back of his head. It’s freed. “Tony,” he whispers, as the truck starts to move, “Tony, here. I’m here, Tony.”  
   
He can’t free his hands. He’s still too weak, and the cuffs keep them pressed together. He can push his fingers through the gaps though, wiggle them in Tony’s direction. In the poor light, he can only just make out the whites of Tony’s eyes.  
   
His hands are tied behind his back, but still, he leans forward, rests his brow next to Steve’s fingers. He makes a noise, like fear, or maybe acceptance, shuffles his body so he’s pressed against the bars, as close to Steve as can be.  
   
“You know they’ll find us,” Steve says quietly. He’s conscious that the guards don’t want them to be talking. “Before they – do anything to us, or send you anywhere. We’ll be found. They always find us.”  
   
Tony nods, maybe tries to smile beneath the gag, because his eyes crinkle. But he can’t hide his scent, and he stinks of stress, and fear, rancid, enveloping the small space. Instinctively, Steve wants to either back away, or get close, hold Tony, cover him, till that scent fades away.  
   
“And – and I won’t let them hurt you,” Steve swears, voice a whisper. He sees Tony roll his eyes. This reassures him. He’s not so scared that he can’t still laugh in the face of Steve’s old fashioned values. But Steve isn’t old fashioned, not really: he just means it. Tony has no suit. Whatever drug was in that gas dulls the senses, the mind.  
   
Tony needs his mind.  
   
They drive for hours. No one comes. There are no sirens, no helicoptors, no chase. Just six trucks, driving alone along isolated Russian roads, thick with snow. If Steve could give Tony his jacket, he would; he’s huddled himself as close as possible, trying to preserve warmth. Steve thinks, they wouldn’t let him freeze to death. Not when they went to so much effort to get him.  
   
But the fact they did is trouble. Who, why? Tony is forty. He still has heats, but for how much longer? Why would someone ask _breeders_ to collect him? And Steve? For what fucking purpose? Steve can see there being some psychotic out there who decides they want Tony as some kind of – as some kind of bedslave, or worse. But they would have to be bold. Bold, and stupid; who the hell would kidnap Tony Stark, only to dull his mind and stick him in lingerie? Would anyone truly be so dense that they would want Tony for his body, not his brain?  
   
They must drive all night. Steve thinks Tony might sleep for some of it, but he shivers through it all. Come sunrise, they’re both thirsty, and hungry, running on canapes and last night’s champagne.  
   
The drug seems to have worn off some; when Tony opens his eyes, he works his jaw, is able to engage his brain. “How long?” He asks, voice muffled by the gag, but blessedly able to speak.  
   
“Seven hours. Maybe eight. You okay?”  
   
Tony seems to think about it, then nods. He butts his head against the metal cage, stares up at Steve, brow furrowed. Oh; Steve hooks his fingers back in the grate, let’s Tony rub his brow along the tips. “It’ll be okay,” Steve lies, “the worst they do is rough us up. The others will be here.”  
   
Tony asks him something, muffled. Steve frowns. “Huh?”  
   
 _Are you okay?_ He asks again, Steve just about making out the words.  
   
“Me? I’m fine,” Steve tries to smile, as if he hadn’t witnessed thugs shooting down innocent civilians on a whim. “Maybe – maybe next time I listen to you. We’ll go somewhere warm, okay? Mexico, the Caribbean. Hey, what about Australia? Do we have them on the charter yet?”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, brow furrowed. He shakes his head, lets his eyes crinkle to show Steve he’s smiling. He wishes they hadn’t gagged him. Worse than that, covered half his face, put them in cages like animals. It’s too cruel, cruel for anyone, but for Tony especially. He’s too clever, too sharp to be –  
   
They’ve stopped. There’s a banging; not gunshots, more like… trucks, their doors opening and closing. Slowly, the frantic sounds of panic start to emanate from outside their vehicle. The gas has worn off for almost all of them. _Help,_ and _please, my father will pay you,_ and, _I have a child, please, I have children –_  
   
The guests were a mix foreign dignitaries and their spouses. Almost all the omegas present were there as plus ones. Almost all will have rich families, friends in government. And yet, they were all taken anyway. Herded like cattle, with their friends shot down around them.  
   
He can hear the footsteps crunching in the snow outside the truck, muttering in Russian. “Tony,” he warns, their small peace disrupted. “Tony, don’t fight them, just – “  
   
They throw open the doors, screaming. “ _Get back!”_ They yell, pointing their guns, waving them dangerously at the cages. “Get back or we shoot! Get back or I’ll kill you! Don’t fucking move or I’ll blow off your knee, stud!”  
   
They open a slot in Tony’s cage and push through the catch pole. Tony shuffles as far back as he can manage, hands still cuffed behind him, pressing his gagged head against the back wall to avoid the loop. He kicks out with his feet and snarls, screams obscenities at them. “Don’t, Tony,” Steve wills, “it won’t make it easier, just go with them.”  
   
That’s easy for him to say, of course. They’re not walking _him_ like a dog.  
   
The guards are getting irritated. “He won’t come out!” They shout over, probably to the leader. “What do we do?”  
   
“Are you scared to touch him?” Their leader mocks. “He’s a bitch. Open the fucking cage and grab him, you omegas.”  
   
The guards look at each other doubtful. Huh. They _are_ scared of Tony when he isn’t sedated out of his mind. Go figure. They should be. “Listen to the stud,” one of the guards says, warily, “don’t cause trouble, Stark. This’ll go harder for you if you do.”  
   
Tony calms. _Settles,_ is the word they’d use, like Tony is a nervy horse. “That’s it,” a guard says, holding out the palms of his hands. “Open the gate.”  
   
They do. Tony does nothing, stays flattened against the back of the cage, wary. “Here,” the guard coaxes, holding out his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. We won’t hurt you if you don’t fight.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, quietly. He stinks of rancid sweat and fear and stress. The morning air is freezing. If he goes with them now – easily, gently, does what they want, maybe they give him some food and water, maybe they let him stretch his legs. They won’t kill him, but Steve knows they can make him hurt. “Please.”  
   
Tony flicks his eyes over to him, frowns, irritated. His eyes give away so much, they always have. Even with half his face covered, he betrays too much with his eyes.  
   
Which is how Steve knows, when Tony slowly creeps forward like a good puppy, that he won’t go quietly.  
   
He rolls. Out of the back of the truck, well placed, bringing his arms round to his front. He manages to get them round a guards throat, head-butt him hard enough to send him to the floor, swing round before they can get him on the neck with the catch pole. He’s aiming for the wheel, Steve realises, he thinks he has a chance to hijack the truck, which he might, if Steve didn’t see –  
   
The leader, with his two-pronged taser, the same one he’d shocked Steve with earlier. He jams it, hard, into the small of Tony’s back, almost lazily. “Idiots,” he grunts, while Tony groans in the snow.  
   
He takes the catch pole, ropes it around Tony’s neck, tightens it. He chokes, fingers scrabbling with the bite of it against his throat. “Get up,” he says, shortly, shaking the pole. “Get up, or you get another hit.”  
   
Tony can’t get to his feet. “Stop it,” Steve pleads, “he can’t walk. You’ve just shocked him, give him a breather – “  
   
The leader carelessly zaps Steve’s cage. He chokes.  
   
Tony manages to climb to his feet, gasping for breath, desperately ripping at the choker around his neck. The leader pushes him forward and he stumbles, still trying to pull away and moaning something behind his gag.  
   
“Walk,” the leader says, shortly, palming off the pole to one of the guards. “Get him in check-in. I want him tagged and showered. Put him in the with the others but give him a separate cage. Oh, and make sure he’s gassed.”  
   
“What about the stud?”  
   
“Same routine,” the leader says, with a brief look at Steve. “But gas him first. We don’t need a repeat episode.”  
   
   
The shower is humiliating.  
   
They tie him down like a great lumbering beast, shackled hand and foot like a star, no inch of him left covered. They spray him down with freezing water, scrub at him with sponges attached to poles, because they clearly have a philosophy of not getting too close to things that might bite back.  
   
The leader is watching him through the glass, smirking. One of the guards pulls his head to the side, wrenches it, and then they’re piercing his cartilage. _Tagged,_ Steve thinks through the sharp pain. They don’t want their livestock to just wander off.  
   
It takes two guards with two separate catch poles to loop them round his neck and coax him down the hallway, still soaking wet and naked. His tuxedo is long gone. Steve thinks clothes are probably a luxury here, or just not necessary; why would livestock need clothes?  
   
Still, the cell they put him in is warm enough. There’s a ventilator, high up enough Steve can’t reach, where he’d bet they’ll keep him doped. He feels lumbering, slow, like a bull in a china shop unable to charge at a red flag. When they shut the doors (triple doors, unbreakable, trust him, Steve has _tried),_ he can just about sink to the mattress, lying flat on his front, drooling.  
   
He thinks, if it’s bad for him, Tony’s probably had it worse.  
   
He must sleep, because he’s woken by the sound of the hatch opening and closing and food being pushed through. Bread and slop, but a lot of it, and clean water to drink; even if the food isn’t appetising, they have no intention of starving him. There’s a toilet, and a rusty sink with no soap. Still, better than a bucket.  
   
Slowly, he examines his cell. It’s scentless, except for a faint underline of… ugh, blood. Steve’s nose wrinkles. Blood and detergent, like someone has been through and tried to scrub it clean. They can’t, though. And the blood smells stale. He can just pick up a – fear scent, beneath it all. Alpha, definitely. The alpha who was here before him would have been scared.  
   
So this is where they keep their stud. Looks like only one at any given time, but there’s no saying they don’t have more. What do they want him for? As distasteful as it sounds, they could want to breed him. Sell him. Experiment on him, even. Maybe, someone else has just sent the breeders to do their dirty work, and Steve’s about to get on a one-way trip to some mad scientists’ basement.  
   
Tony, though. Tony. They’ll have him. Hurting him, maybe? No, no, no. He thinks of Tony, cold and alone in a cell, shivering from a freezing shower. They’ll have tagged him the same way they’ve tagged Steve. All those omegas, those poor poor omegas. Would someone help them? Anyone?  
   
Steve feels… he feels…  
   
Like it’s getting harder to think.  
   
   
Tony feels it’s been three days.  
   
He can’t be sure. They’re underground. The lights are always on. He’s lost words, been denied them, by the gas they keep streaming through air ducts in the ceiling. Every day, he feels less –  
   
Him. Less human, maybe.  
   
The others, they cry. They moan. They sob, and plead, and scream. They’re kept six or seven to a cage. The youngest must be eleven, the oldest no older than thirty-five. Tony is the oldest, definitely, and they keep him separate.  
   
He should be grateful for the space, maybe, but he’s not. It means the guards can single him out, easily. Three times a day, they drag the large vat with slop down the central hallways that separates the cages. Every day, for _three days,_ the guard in charge of food has smirked at Tony, ladled out a bowl, and then placed it just out of his reach.  
   
He has water, because he has a toilet. The less said about that, the better. At least it’s fresh. But the _bastard –_ that’s what Tony’ll call him, _Bastard –_ hasn’t forgiven him for head-butting him when they dragged him out the back of the truck. He has a nasty bruise. _I hope it gives you brain damage,_ Tony thinks, wordlessly. _I hope you get a clot and die, you fucking asshole._  
   
Anger can’t sustain him for too long. He’s starving. His hunger is like a pit in his belly. Truly, he has never been _this_ hungry. He thinks, maybe it’s on purpose. They drug him so he forgets how to speak. They take away his clothes, and brand him like cattle. They don’t feed him, so he gets a fire in his belly, a desperation.  
   
He chews on his fist. The others will come. Steve will make it out. Tony has already dug around the toilet, pulled out a sharp lever used to keep the damn thing flushing. He’s hidden it behind the basin, and pulls it out in the night, sharpens it against the wall when the others are sleeping. They patrol at night, but so far, he’s been lucky.  
   
If he could get them in here, some way. Maybe he could use it. Cut one of their throats. Fake an illness, clog up the toilet till they have no choice but to intervene, _something._  
   
But these men don’t seem to have an interest in taking good care of their livestock. Oh sure, once in a while they get sprayed down with cold water, and they get fed three times a day. It isn’t enough. Not when they’re all packed together, human bodies sweating and wasting. Soon, people will be getting sick. And the sickness will spread.  
   
They keep them drugged, doped through the gas that seems to stream almost constantly. The guards get masks. The rest of them don’t have a choice; they just have to sit, and feel the words leave them, sense leave them. Tony feels it. He feels his brain shutting down, all the quick-fire synapses and neurons slowing, buffering, trapped.  
   
Memory is crucial. All animals have memory in some form; you need it, to learn. Increasingly, Tony’s memories are a jumble, pieceless, with no form. Time is losing meaning. When he thinks back, he thinks of his childhood as – as – as a time when he was smaller than he is now. It no longer occurs to him that this state was years ago; in fact, now it confuses him. How was it that he was once small enough that he couldn’t reach a light switch? Why is he big now?  
   
He still has some words. Names, mostly. He can _think,_ but it’s – it’s – there’s no sense, or order. He’s hungry, so hungry. He thinks, hungerhungerhunger, which is a hole in his belly. Thirstythirsty, so he drinks.  
   
Tony thinks of rats. Why does he think of rats? Disease, maybe, right? He had just been thinking of sickness, rats… are sick. They make you sick? No, something else. You put a rat in a cage. It’s hungry. It eats. You shock it. Every time it tries to eat, you shock it. And then, it learns. No more eating. You learn to avoid the pain.  
   
 He sleeps, curled in the corner of his cage. He doesn’t have a mattress. The floor is cold concrete, damp, freezing. He wishes he could share, like the others. It would be cramped, but he wouldn’t be lonely. It would be warmer. He sees them, they reassure each other, licking and nuzzling and stroking. Tony is all alone, cold, the outsider. He sees them stare at him like he’s a curiosity, sometimes smelling like… like… like…  
   
Threatthreat, no-good, outsider. They don’t like him. Tony thinks they blame him? Not Tony fault. No, no, not _Tony’s_ fault. Possessive. If something is yours, you need to make it plural, think better, Tony, think sharper –  
   
They don’t feed him again, on the fourth day. Tony’s stomach is hollow, like skin pulled tight over a drum. Bang on him and he’ll make a deep echoing sound. He decides to change tack. When Bastard comes around, lugging the slop behind him, spooning it into cracked wooden bowls, Tony does what the other omegas do. See, he learns. Like the rat. Push yourself again the cage, stick out your arm through the gap in the cell, make your scent all soft and nothreat nothreat. He makes his eyes large and round, grasping. There’s a word. What’s the word? It scares him, he can’t think of the word, the word, for when you want something, for when you _need_ something –  
   
“Plll – “ Tony tries, his lips making a shape. “Pl… pl… pll’z,”  
   
Bastard frowns at him. He says words to his friend, another guard. They frown, and talk in words Tony can’t understand. Sounds, he can hear: _talking,_ and _drugged,_ and _not working, fast enough._ He grasps with his hand, desperate. The slop smells warm, fresh, and he’s so hungry. Needs to eat, needs to eat so he can be strong, so he can… so he can escape. Need to be strong!  
   
Bastard shrugs, and starts pushing the cart away. Tony grunts in panic, tries to follow, pressing himself into the far corner, still grasping and – and – pleading! Please! The word was please, and he is pleading, desperately whining and rattling the bars of his cage. _Please!_ Yes, that was it. If it wasn’t for the hunger, and fear, Tony would be quite proud of himself for remembering so well. He always was clever. He is the – the most clever. The cleverest.  
   
Still, being clever isn’t – good, nogood for getting food. Tony doesn’t know how. He crawls to the toilet, checks his sharpshiny is still there, hidden. Yes. The others are eating, chewingchewing, scenting like food and hunger. Tony curls miserably by the toilet; his belly makes the rumbling, twisting, like a snake in his stomach.  
   
He watches a little one. They make sure he eats, the elders in his cage. He’s a – messenger. Tony watches him, fascinated, as he wiggles through the bars of the cell. He’s small enough to just squeeze though, along to the very end of the row, darting like a rat, quick and fast.  
   
He tracks him warily. What? What he do? There’s commotion in some cages, scrapping, biting. One group scratch at him, snap at him to chase him away, and he scurries out, nimble. Bowl. He’s holding a bowl. Getting – getting all the slop, scraping it from bowls that are left, discarded, putting it in. Tony’s mouth waters. He shuffles forward, out of the shadows. _Please,_ he thinks, emptily. He doesn’t know what the word means. He knows it can get you things, but he doesn’t know why.  
   
He hangs by the door, watches boy. Some omegas help, scrape their food leftover. They look after the young. We are good like that.  
   
Still, the boy does not stop. Carefully, flat, head bowed and shoulders small, he comes closer, scenting like _childchild_ and nothreat. This one is so young; he has not even had a heat yet. He has brother, Tony thinks, an elder one, who watches hungrily from behind the bars of his cell. He has not collected food for him, no. He slides the bowl to Tony, then scatters away, frightenedfrightened.  
   
A trick? A trap? They are all watching him. Tony reaches out, grabs bowl with tip of his fingers, brings closer. Notenough, notenough, his belly is so empty. He picks it up and puts to his mouth, eats with his hand, greedy, gobbling, gone too quick. Licking the bowl, rubbing his nose, emptyempty, nothing. He throws away bowl with – with _anger,_ notgood, notenough, and young one scents scared.  
   
Ohno, Tony did not mean – he apologises, chirping at him softly, whining, making himself small. He puts his hands on the ground, bows his head. _Sorrysorry._ The young one accepts this; he darts forward, snatches up the bowl, quickly walks on his toes to his cage and slides back in, hides himself at the back where guards cannot see him. _Thankyou,_ Tony tells the others, grunting, nodding. They do the same, an acceptance; they will not forget him, or let him starve.  
   
Soon, though, he is too tired. He does not have the – the – energy. Strength. He lies, curled by the toilet so he can drink but too weak to stray. He cannot even put himself against the door to ask for food when they push the slop down the hallway. They watch him, talk in words. He cannot even chirp, or whimper, his throat is like sand.  
   
He thinks. Friendfriend, who would help him. Blond hair, blue eyes, big and strong alpha. Tony is alone. No one has come, and he is hungry, so hungry.  
   
One of the guards crouches by door, clicks his tongue, puts his hand through bars. He speak softlysoftly. Tony squints, eyes him warily; he does not _trust,_ he is not _stupid._ Still, guard puts hand in food, gets it in his hand, and holds it out.  
   
Tony cannot resist. He crawls, drags himself slowly, wary and scared. He knows these guards can hurt. He cannot see their faces, can’t see if their trustworthy, if they smile with BAD teeth, threatening. Nogood not having faces, Tony can’t know. He stops, tries to take hot-smelling slop from hands, but _snatched_ away. Guard shakes his head. His mouth moves and makes sounds, and he gestures at his hand again.  
   
Tony is so hungry.  
   
He reaches down, eats from his palm. His tongue licks his hand, gets all traces of food. Guard puts his other hand on Tony’s hair, pat pat pat, goodboy goodboy. Maybe Tony will get more food? He does not bite, even though he wants to.  
   
More. This time, he goes easier, trusting they will not smack him, or shock him. He eats quickly, snuffles at the palm for more, and the guard –  
   
CAUGHT! TRAP! Tony jerks, squalling, pulling against the BAD NO-GOOD thing on his neck, tight tight so he can’t breathe! Caught like a fish in a trap, pole-and-loop, pushing and tugging him. He will never trust again, stupidstupidstupid. They pull him out, put him on his feet, and he howls and snaps and scratches, biting air. No one gets close, because they are not STUPID like Tony.  
   
They’re speaking Words with their mouths, sounds to Tony. He understands angry barking and – OUCH, ouch ouch, ouch, sharp sharp pain, electric, numb and hurt. Tony cries out, wounded animal, and they push him along, fingers trying to pull at loop around neck, too tight for skin.  
   
The air outside basement is clearer, fresher, with no badsmelling gas that makes Tony’s head fuzz. Doesn’t matter, because head _is_ still fuzzing, with nogood bad thoughts. He is scenting like stupid and scared, which means he seems weak, easytarget. Needs to be stronger, better. He will never escape if he is not stronger and better.  
   
End of hallway, they push him onto floor, wave their hands at him, electrichurt and fists, shouting sounds. Pull up hole in the wall, shake at him, barking, angry, _scary._ Tony flattens himself back, loop is gone from his neck, scatters backwards into hole in wall, which rattles.  
   
They shut him in. Toosmall, toosmall, _toosmall –_  
   
Tony scream, and kick and punch. New cage is TOOSMALL and he is curled on hands and knees, scratching, trying to get out. AHHH, AHHH he screams, smelling blood on his fingertips, pain and fear. Please please let him out. Let him out please please please he will never bite or headbutt again.  
   
Then there is light. It comes out the other way – not the way Tony went in. He scrambles turns around and flees towards it, a bigger space where he can stretch and stand. The ground is… soft. Tony tries it, presses down the pad of his hand once, tentative, recoils when he feels the bounce. He does it again, adjusts, and sniffs at the floor; something like… something like that reminds Tony of sweat, and metal, and… dumbells? Huh. Weird material. He crawl forward, careful careful, not wanting to give up the space in the small cage, but then they is snapping it shut, SNAP, and Tony is left in the big soft cage with no way out.  
   
He can hear voices. He looks up, at the bright lights, and has to squint away. He just about makes out glass lining the upper walls, windows, and shadows behind them. Men. Alphas. Looking down, pointing. He can smell beer, and cigars. He doesn’t want them to see him. He presses against the wall.  
   
Everything smells _more._ Tony’s never – he’s never – smelt this good before, scented. Fucking, the words are hard to think of in his head. What a fucking… a fucking…  
   
He’s suddenly aware that he has his back to them all. His _back._ His soft, squishy back, unprotected, nogood. Anyone could be sneaking, anyone could be hurting. He turns, rapidly twists a circle in his little corner, backs himself against the soft walls; the blurry shapes of the men are laughing, pointing. Tony growls, shows teeth; he snaps at them, bastards, bastards who are a fucking. He swipes at them. _Go away!_ He snarls with his teeth and throat, no words. _Go away! Leave me!_  
   
The lights are too too bright, blinding, spots all over his eyes like big blooming mushrooms. He rubs at them, frantic; he needs to see! It’s not safe! He hears someone rapping their fist against the viewing window and he nearly jumps out of his skin, swiping his hand wildly in front of his face to warn them off, snapping, snarling.  
   
 _This isn’t right,_ he realises, distantly. _Tony, use your head._  
   
Tony? Tony. He is… he is…  
   
Hearing a thumping. _Thump thump thump._ Kicking, and pounding, and scenting a distress. Tony sniffs, tentatively at the wall, and then recoils sharply; there is someone _inside_ the wall? Like how Tony was inside the small cage? They are thumping and thumping and making large sounds. Friend or foe? Tony scampers back to the farside of the room, puts himself in the corner and makes himself small and smaller. He is not big and strong and tough, he is omega, and the-thing-behind-the-wall is alpha, definitely alpha, and so – so familiar?  
   
The wall explodes. The alpha has burst through, roaring, and Tony flattens himself completely, chin tucked into his neck, neck muscles coiled. This alpha is big, blonde fluff on his head and eyes with no colour, skin red and redder as he huffs and puffs, roars at the big alpha men behind the window. He ties to jump, to smash his fists, and alpha-men scatter back, then laugh and point. Tony does not want them to laugh and point at him, so he is glad alpha gets attention, snapping and angry. Still, he is bigger than Tony, and he feels THREATTHREAT –  
   
The alpha turns to him. He growls, lowly, makes sounds that Tony cannot understand. He can’t let this alpha think he is easy, weak and pathetic, so he pulls back lip, shows his _teeth,_ growls back. Alpha recoils, scrambling back like he has been hurt. Huh. Maybe – maybe Tony is more scary than he thinks? Good. Good! That’s right, alpha, back away, this is Tony’s corner.  
   
The alpha puts himself by the wall, makes himself small, and pathetic. Tony narrows his eyes. This is trick, he thinks. Like guard, who offered food, and then made him hurt and pulled him away.  
   
The alpha-men slam their fists against the windows, make loud noises. The alpha in front of Tony makes sounds with his mouth, flattening himself against the floor. Good. Better. Alpha needs to be smaller, lower, before Tony can trust him. He stretches out his arms, raises his palms –  
   
Tony snaps at him, snarls. _Put those down!_ He growls. That’s a threatthreatthreat. The alpha seems to understand, and puts down his hands, rests them flat against the soft-cushy ground. Good. Better. Tony needs to see his hands at all times. He does not trust, he is not stupid.  
   
Stalemate. Tony is so tense, so wired, he cannot relax. Alpha could attack. Tony is only small. Alpha could catch him, bite him, bond him, cover him completely and Tony would not be able to escape. The hunger in his belly grows, more and more.  
   
Big alpha, with the blond fluff on his head, who looks so familiar-but-not, is lowering his head. He is scenting… no-threat. He is scenting like vanilla and strawberries. Huh? Vanilla and what? These words and tastes are strange, where do they come from? How does Tony know?  
   
Tentatively, Tony shuffles forward. Big alpha looks up, and Tony skitters back, snapping. _Stop,_ he chirps, _stay._ The big alpha listens, hunkers down. Tony crawls closer, sniffing the air. Still no threat…  
   
Sound. Loud and louder. Tony recoils, claps his hands over his ears. He smells it, then, something like – oh, mouth-watering, belly tingling, so good. _FOOD. FOOD._ He looks up, stares at new hole in ceiling, where food is coming. He jumps up onto his main legs, jumps and jumps. _MINE!_ He thinks, this is HIS. He’s so hungry, he’s so, so hungry, needs to eat, needs food, needs it, needs it, needs it –  
   
But big alpha has same idea. He lunges, and Tony is pushed to side, hitting padded wall, falling. Whining, he scrambles, tries to climb back to his feet so he can get there first; he is not big and strong, but he is small, and quick, and food is dropped onto floor near his head. Chicken, thick and grisly and hot-smelling, it’s his, it’s his, it’s Tony –  
   
He snatches it with his hands, sinks in his teeth, gets one whole bite, desperate and blurring and soso hungry. Then big alpha is snarling; he snaps at him, Tony is stupid, and snaps back. He scents alpha go angry, _disobeydisobey?_ And _punishpunish._ He pushes, hands on Tony’s shoulders, on his back and vulnerable, trying to get away but too much, too tight –  
   
He roars in Tony’s face. _No,_ Tony tries to chirp, weakly, _I’m so hungry. You smell like food, you do not smell like hunger. You’ve eaten, I haven’t._ The alpha does not like him fighting back; his eyes are glazed, now, scenting like desperation. He tried to be kind, but not any more. He wants food more than he wants to be nice to Tony.  
   
He pulls back his lip, snarls. Tony faces him, stares at him dead-on, no surrender. So, alpha puts his teeth on Tony’s shoulder; he bites, not deep enough to hurt, just scratching. And when Tony does not submit, he _bites,_ hard and harder, so Tony makes the crying noise and cannot stop it, he is defeated, putting his chin on the floor like weak boy, pathetic.  
   
Alpha releases him, snatches chicken. Tony retreats, shuffles back to his corner and licks his shoulder, tries to, stomach like a hole and in painpain while alpha chuffs happily and EATS his chicken, HIS chicken, it was his. He scents himself: pain, and shame, and hurthurthurt. He’s so hungry. It’s not fair.  
   
When the alpha is done, he belches, lays out against his wall, one hand on his belly. He is so not-scared, Tony is so weak, he even shuts his eyes, like sleeping. He has left bones. Tony – softly, slowly, cautious – inches forward, shuffles along the wall of the room. He darts out, quick as he can, snatches the carcass then scuttles back to his corner, gnaws on it, tries to eat. It’s not good. It hurts his teeths. It tastes like alpha-scent, wet and no juice left at all, but still, he’s so hungry. It’s crunches and cracks and he tries his best, eating it all and licking taste off his fingers.  
   
Alpha has his head in his hands. His head bowed, and hiding. Why? Tony thinks, bitter, he is winner. He won. He got the good, succulent, thick chicken, with the juice and all that meat, and Tony got a bone. Now he is smelling like _he_ was the loser, like shameshame and sorrysorrysorry, like Tony snapped at _him_ and bit _his_ shoulder.  
   
The alpha makes mouth sounds at him. Garbled, no sense to them, noises in Tony’s ears. He does not want to be bit again.  
   
The alpha sits up, on his haunches, hands pressed back against the wall. There is nowhere else for Tony to hide; he can only lower his head and his shoulders and hope and hope alpha doesn’t want to hurt him. The alpha-men behind glass are _laughing,_ short, hacking things that make Tony’s hair stand on edge.  
   
He is shuffling forward. Tony snaps at him, warning him not to get close, but it’s out of pride more than anything else; he doesn’t want him to think Tony is completely weak, and stupid. Still, he comes closer, crawling as low to the floor as he can. Tony can’t help it, he senses a threat, and stands up on his main legs, better for kicking with, for running with.  
   
But the alpha just – puts something, in the middle of the floor. It had been hidden in the corner, secreted for later, but Tony sees it now: drying, not as hot, but still smelling so so good. Chicken. A leg.  
   
Tony’s mouth waters. A gift? A peace offering? He won’t go forward, not while alpha is standing there, like a trap, like the guard who offered food and hurt him. Alpha backs away, and Tony darts forward, grabs it in his mouth and takes it to his corner. He wants to save some for later but he’s so hungry – he’s so, so hungry –  
   
And it’s gone, sitting heavy in his belly. Better than slop, still not enough, but better. Tony licks clean his hands, he licks all the spots on the floor it had touched. The alpha watches him. He makes a mouth sound like ‘?’, head cocked to the side. Tony narrows his eyes at him, all teeth. He can come close, but Tony will BITE. He has not forgotten.  
   
He clamps a hand over his shoulder, where he still have teeth marks and bleeding. Ouch. Alpha comes into the middle of the squishy floor and then – turns his back. Just sits there, all defenceless and open, like Tony can do anything to him, like he won’t fight back. A trick? Or stupidity? Or – or –  
   
Trust?  
   
Slowly, Tony inches forward, snuffling, sniffing the air. Alpha just scents of chicken, blood, vanilla, strawberries, chemically-badness, and – and – and –  
   
Home?  
   
Tony is by his back, sniffing at his throat, around the back of his neck, his hair. He puts his hands on him to keep him still so he has a better grip, carefully scents his glands. This is alpha is not so scary, maybe. He is like a big – a big cuddly thing. He does not mean to hurt, and he smells like _regretregretshame._ He gave Tony chicken.  
   
Still, he should be punished. Tony bites him, the same spot he bit Tony, clamping his jaw around alpha’s shoulder. He does not hurt him too badly; he knows what it’s like to be hungry, and Tony tried to fight him, too. He does not draw blood, just a warning. _That hurt me,_ he chirps at him, _you did not need to be that mean, I would have shared with you!_  
   
The alpha wiggles underneath his mouth, and Tony lets go. He tastes like salt. The alpha looks at him, with those colourless eyes, his big soft face and yellow fluff on his head, cheeks pink.  
   
 _Blue._  
   
The sound drifts across his head. Bee-loo. And he pictures an open sky, an ocean. Blue. The alpha’s eyes are blue.  
   
“Bbbb,” Tony tries, lisping. “Bbbb, bbbll.”  
   
Blue makes excited noises, chattering and chirping, eyes wide, smiling. He’s moving his head, nodding. “Bbbllll – oooo – “ Tony tries again, straining to make the noises into something else, something with a meaning.  
   
Bang. The small cage, the one Tony came through, is opening. Tony cries out in fright (no, no, no, _bad!)_ and tries to scramble away as the rope on the stick comes through, poking and prodding and trying to _catch_ him. The alpha growls, puts him behind him and – grabs the loop? Twists it in his hands and _pulls._  
   
He hears the guards shouting, annoyed, and he peeks his eyes past alpha’s shoulder; the guards are shouting angry sounds, beckoning. He slowly crawls back, so he’s against the other wall, as far away as can be and –  
   
SNAP. The small cage that held alpha is open, and they are _snatching_ Tony, they are taking him away. Tony clicks and whines, tries to push back but they are dragging him, and alpha is gripping his ankles, snarling at the bad guards, tugging at him like he’s the chicken carcass.  
   
They take him, when he had just started to feel safe.  
   
He gets shocked, bit with the electric-metal-no-good-fork. Blue barks, lets go of him, smelling like electric and ozone, and Tony’s… head is bad. Hurting. They pull him away, and he can even get his main legs to kick. He’s dragged. When he wakes up, he’s back in the cage, and he thinks of Blue’s eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

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